Saving Anastasia
A connection to something larger than this fight.
I froze, my fingers tightening unconsciously around his arm. The air felt heavier, the silence louder.
“Quatro,” I said into the comm, my voice low but urgent, “I need you to check this.”
A quick snap of the camera captured the tattoo, its ink etched like a secret waiting to be decoded. I sent the image through, the silence of the warehouse pressing against me like a weight.
Minutes passed. Then Quatro’s voice came through the comm, not loud, not urgent—just a whisper that carried more dread than a shout.
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